ProdigalI always knew he had an eye to roam:
A wandering eye upon some secret aim
Would take him on a journey far from home.
Our father’s younger son would bring him bane:
Regarded him with blind and doting eye,
Bring nothing to his loving heart but pain.
A broken hearted love that would not die,
But lit a vigil day and night to shine
The trackless path, all hopelessness deny.
I stayed at home and did his work and mine
In filial duty bound, and not a sound
Of murmur slipped my lips, though thoughts malign
Would gather in my heart. Then gall, profound,
Evoked my pent up anger, to complain
His welcome on return, which knew no bound.
But this my son, your brother, has again
Returned and wiser grown for all his woes:
For joy of this the fatted calf is slain.
Alas! my moral certitude is slain.
In love all pleas for fairness are in vain.